I am reading a lot of Shakespeare. And by a lot, I mean that by now, I wish that there really was a dagger before me, so I could pluck it out of the air and use it to stab the unfortunate souls who manage to piss me off.
Like the guy who stared me at the bus last night whilst I was trying to read, and then kept pestering me until I told him what I was reading, and when I said Shakespeare, he shrugged his shoulders and ew-ed me.
I’m starting to think in iambic pentameter now. Not good.
The funny thing is, I wasn’t a particular fan of Shakespeare until I studied it in depth. I dabbled a little – my parents were trying to nurture my literary talents, by giving me abridged kiddie versions of Shakespeare’s hits – and I knew my favourite plots (Macbeth, Hamlet, and The Tempest, if you’re interested). But it’s quite hard for a nine year old to understand the meaning behind ‘take my milk for g’all, you murd’ring ministers’.
However, six years on, I can ramble on about the Bard for pages. Which is precisely what I’m doing now. As well as craving porridge, and doing remarkably well at ignoring the fact that I have exams relatively soon.
Fun fact: Rather than going to a party on Saturday night, I stayed home and read scripts. I spent the entirety of the weekend either at the theatre, reading theatre-related stuff, or emailing theatrical people. I’m such a nerd.
I’m going now, because I’m boring myself, and probably you lot as well.